


Finding Quietude

by catchingstardust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchingstardust/pseuds/catchingstardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll be fine. He's fine. Until he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Quietude

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First fanfic on AO3, so please bear with me here and tell me what you think. If I have portrayed the characters or some the stuff here inaccurately, please don't be afraid to message me about it! Anyways thank you so much for reading and please enjoy!

He’s fine, he tells himself or more accurately, he’ll be fine. It’s not like he hasn’t dealt with the voices before. It’s not like they haven’t spoken in sharp barbs to him, pointing out his every mistake, every mess-up, every missed opportunity he should’ve taken. It’s not like they haven’t told him before that he’s worthless, he’ll never amount up to anything more. He’ll never be anything like his friends, those bright lights who don’t have to be anything but themselves to shine because he’s the cowardly one. The one that sticks to the side, too afraid to put himself out there, forever doomed to trail behind his trailblazers of friends. He’s doesn’t deserve the friends and family he’s been blessed with. There’s a reason they call him the guide of the group.

A guide cannot exist without the presence of others. He helps others, that’s what he does, that’s what he does best, and even then, it’s not as fulfilling as it used to be. The voices never shout or bellow the way Enjolras does in his speeches. No, they’re quieter. They’re whispers in his ear, cold breathes that tickle his skin with goose bumps and though they speak in soft tones, they only grow crueler when he’s alone. It doesn’t matter if he’s studying or in his bed, trying to sleep. Their whispers seem to grow louder until they’ve become something akin to shouting and he can’t drown the voices with the silence. He clamps his hands over his ears to block them out, but it’s no use. Nothing can stop them.

Courfeyrac is the only person who has a slight idea about them. Courf discovering the voice was an accident, really since he didn’t mean for Courf to catch him curled in a ball on his bed in an attempt to hide. They have a heartfelt one-on-one conversation right there and then, but after that, he never brings up the voices again to Courfeyrac again. He never mentions that they’re still there, whispering in his ears, sometimes louder than the sound of his beating heart.

But Combeferre is hardy. He doesn’t need anyone to chase the voices away. They’ve always been there and besides, compared everyone else’s problems, the voices are like mosquito bites- annoying but he can deal with them on his own. He’s the rock of the group and what kind of rock complains about its own problems?

He’ll be fine. He is fine.

Until he’s not.

*

Everyone has his own shit to deal with. Éponine Thenardier knows that for a fact; you just have to look at her and her friends.

Enjolras has a little more than a strained relationship with his bourgeoisie family. Courfeyrac has attachment issues; he does sex, but he doesn’t do love or relationships. At all. Jehan comes from a family who can’t accept him for the romantic lovable poet he is. Bahorel gets into street fights in his free time to relieve stress. Feuilly has both tuition fees and rent to worry about. Joly is a hypochondriac. Bousset is just very unlucky in general. Grantaire drinks too much- something to do with a drug addict of a mother and a nonexistent father.

Éponine supposes that’s why she and Grantaire understand each on the most basic level. After all, her childhood, while not quite exactly mirroring his crappy one, is marked by the same kind of horror: an abusive family (the father’s a con-man and a criminal, the mother’s his partner-in-crime). That and her tendency to pick the wrong men to hang with (i.e. a long string of bad boyfriends).

If there’s anyone who doesn’t seem to have problems, she’d point to Marius Pontmercy and Cosette Fauchelevent, the pair of sickening lovebirds that only a fairytale could come up with. But then Éponine remembers Marius struggles to focus on anything aside from his love life (Cosette) and Cosette has a father that hasn’t learned to let her fly the nest yet. So if those can be considered problems, then so be it.

And then there’s Combeferre, the quiet one, but certainly no less important. If everyone seems to have problems to deal with, then Combeferre is the one who does everything in his power to help them all. He never tries to fix his friends and their problems, but he does support them in any way possible.

Combeferre keeps Enjolras’ volatile temper in check, lest it gets unleashed on the others after an unsavory ‘conversation’ with a hostile father. Combeferre never judges Courfeyrac for his one-night stands and makes sure the perpetual heartbreaker doesn’t get too wild. Combeferre lets Jehan take the couch when it’s obvious the poet doesn’t want to be alone at night. Combeferre treats Bahorel’s wounds and soothes Feuilly’s cracked nerves. He assures Joly that the he is perfectly fine and proves to Bossuett that bad luck is nothing more than coincidence. He gets Marius to focus on things aside his love life and helps Cosette show her father she’s more grown up. He switches Grantaire’s alcohol shots with water when he thinks the drunk student has had more than enough to drink.

And as for Éponine, she’s lost count of the number of times he’s roused her from nightmares, let her crash on his couch after another fight, another break-up, and helped her keep an eye on her brother. Actually all of her friends do that, but Combeferre goes above and beyond. Of all of her friends, Combeferre has babysat Gavroche on a short notice the most.

Combeferre takes care of them all, yet surprisingly, only a few things are known about the caretaker. Sometimes it’s difficult to even tell what he’s thinking. Yes, there are general details, provided by a former roommate (Courfeyrac and his loose lips), but can only make up so much of a person. Sometimes Combeferre reminds Éponine of a ghost. His presence is acknowledged, yet he remains distant, keeping a lid on any personal details.

He has a doctor for a father. His mother died when he was nine. He never mentions either of his parents. He reads on a daily basis. He’s a med student like Joly, but he likes philosophy and quoting philosophers and his favorite authors too. Overall, he sounds like a well-educated, generally benign gentleman and honestly, that’s what Éponine would’ve thought too. Would’ve.

Sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking, the soft expression he wears cracks. His shoulders slouch forward and the concern in his eyes fades, leaving something dead in its place.

She won’t say it aloud, but Éponine thinks an expression like that doesn’t suit him. She knows that expression all too well especially since she’s worn it herself before. That had been a time when she took custody of Gavroche and worked herself to the bone without telling anyone.

Take that from one caretaker watching another, but if that boy doesn’t tell someone whatever burdens his heart, he won’t look dead just in cracks of time.

*

He reaches a breaking point.

After all, there’s only so much of the voices he can take before they just become too much. Sometimes he just wants a break from them.

He picks his poison.

*

Before the first time he drinks himself to a stupor, his hands tremble, barely able to grasp the whiskey bottle. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t dropped it on the floor, shattering the glass and spilling its amber contents.

This is not him. This is not what he does. This is below him. He can’t stoop to this level.

Can’t or shouldn’t?

With shaky fingers, he uncorks the bottle, its weight like lead in his other hand. He sniffs it once, seated on the couch, taking in a bitter scent before placing the bottle on the coffee table. Perhaps he should drink in a glass-

A shiver runs down his back and he stiffens, feeling something cold against the back of his ear. It’s them again and this time they’re chanting. He’s a coward, he’s a weakling who can’t see through his promises, he’s just making up excuses, and he blanches because they’re all true, but he doesn’t want to listen to any of them right now-

He grabs the bottle by the neck and shoves it into his mouth.

The liquid is harsh and bitter to taste. It burns when it slides down his throat and his head reels. But when he takes the bottle out, a light-headed feeling takes over and the voices in his head sound fuzzy. He looks back at the bottle in his hand, eyes glazed.

Huh. Maybe this may not so bad after all.

*

“Did you go out last night?” Courfeyrac asks him the next morning. Despite having a killer headache, Combeferre gives his friend an incredulous look.

“No. Any reason you’re asking?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Not really. Just that you look like a hangover and your breath smells like alcohol.”

“I didn’t,” Combeferre insists, insides brimming with anxiety. Oh god, has he figured it out? His secret-

“Right, right, you didn’t.” Courfeyrac waves his worries aside casually, only to grin, mischief twinkling in both eyes. “Next you do though, call me up. Lord knows you need a drinking buddy.”

Combeferre sighs exasperatedly yet he is relieved. He closes his book. “It was a one time thing, Courf. I probably won’t do it again, but if you’re that insistent, I will.”

*

“Hey, ‘Ferre?” He looks up from his textbook to find Éponine staring at him intently, her own book open, but forgotten. He was studying in the library when she joined him across the table.

A smile tugs at his lips. He has always liked the way she can connect with everyone in the group without really trying. With him, it’s a shared love of peace, quiet, and reading. “Yeah?”

Her eyes flicker towards his wrists before she looks back at her book and flips another page. “You know if you ever need help, I’m here.”

“I do, Éponine.”

“I know.” Éponine shoots back, her eyes suddenly boring into his. He gulps. “You help all of us all the time so it’s only fair that we do the same for you. Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

Slowly he nods and returns to his textbooks. “Right.” He feels haunted for the rest of the day.

*

Combeferre comes to Café Musain with a headache more frequently these days. It gets to the point where Enjolras suggests he buy himself some painkillers or he go the doctor.

Combeferre shakes his head. No he’ll be fine- he just needs to rest more, he says. It’s not going to interfere with the cause, he promises.

While Enjolras’ blue eyes look at him skeptically, a pair of dark eyes narrow in suspicion.

*

He unscrews the whiskey bottle cap before flopping down on the couch. It’s been another long day and now they’re back. In truth, they’re always hiding in the back of his mind, unless he’s alone. Then they’re in the light, holding back no claws or knives until it’s time to slink back into the recesses of his mind.

But now, he hears them loud and clear. He’s screwed up again, he’s nothing but a burden to his friends- the only reason he’s kept around is because of his convenience. Eventually, his friends will all find someone better and leave him behind.

He grits his teeth in an attempt to push them aside. When that doesn’t work though, impulse takes over and his hands work like clockwork.

He chugs a portion of the whiskey and the world spins. Dazed, he smiles rather drunkenly.

He’ll be better now.

*

He reaches half of the bottle sooner than he expects and frowns.

The voices haven’t abated at all.

*

He should’ve known better. Another item to add to the long list of failures he’s managed to commit in these past 26 years. He should’ve known the voices would’ve found a way around, but it’s too late now, isn’t it? It’s becoming a routine now and the whiskey’s already running through his veins, intoxicating his sinews and weighing his nerves down with lead.

His mind feels just as heavy. He’s in his bedroom, on his mattress with his head in his knees and his hands clenched around his ears when he realizes this truth. They’re laughing now, teeth and knives bared as they stab him relentlessly where they (he) knows it hurts the most.

He wants to scream. It hurts, it hurts too much for him to bear anymore- why can’t they just leave him alone? They’re crackling now, taking too much fun in cutting him to pieces and he can’t do anything but just take it. The whiskey has inhibited him. There is no point in fighting back now.

On the nightstand, his phone vibrates.

*

“Where is he?” Enjolras asks, agitated, pulling his phone from his ear. “He’s never late.”

“Who are you talking about?” Courfeyrac asks, curious.

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Combeferre.”

The entire group goes silent and exchange worried glances, realizing that yes, their guide is, in fact, missing. It goes unsaid that their guide almost never skips meetings. And when he is absent, he always texts Enjolras prior to the meeting.

“Maybe he’s sick?” Joly suggests. The way his fingers drum against the café table screams doubt in that possibility.

“If he was sick,” Grantaire points out from a table closer to the back of the cafe, “He would’ve told Apollo beforehand.” He takes a sip from the beer bottle in his hand.

Murmurs break out amongst the group Éponine, sitting across from Grantaire, stares worriedly out of the window of Café Musain.

*

There is a knock on the door. And then a familiar voice. “’Ferre? You in there?”

Buried beneath a heavy blanket, Combeferre burrowed further into himself, grasping at the sheets. The whiskey has made him rude. He should be shedding the blanket to greet whoever is at the door. He shouldn’t be hiding like the frightened child he is.

His heart beats erratically as he listens to his own labored breath. The lack of air is suffocating him and so is the darkness, but he can’t bring himself to open up. There is something alluring about the darkness he’s encased himself in. It’s there he can hide, yet it’s also there when the voices are their loudest. He supposes it makes no difference really because these days they’re loud in the light too.

“I’m coming in, ‘Ferre.” A far off voice says, which is followed by the sound of door hinges creaking.

And then the blankets cocooning him are flung off and he looks up, expecting to see damnation. The glare of the morning sunlight burns the edges of his vision.

The pair of eyes staring down on him now is familiar. Dark, just like ones he’s seen so often in the library and at meetings. As he squints, the face, once a blur, becomes a little more focused.

He blinks, owlishly, eyes and cheeks red from tears. “E-Ep?”

She chuckles softly. The mattress dips beneath her weight as she (he thinks) smiles noncommittally. “You’re very predictable, you know. You keep a spare key under your doormat.”

He sputters. “H-How’d you get here?“

She shushes him, her fingers combing through his mussed-up sandy hair. “You didn’t come to the meeting today. Enjolras was worried. We all were.” Her fingers pause in their motion for a moment and the smile on her face falls. An empty whiskey bottle sits on his nightstand next to his phone. “’Ferre,” She finally sighs, asking quietly. “What did you do?”

The blankets fall in a cascade around him. Again, the alcohol has thrown him off guard and has loosened his tongue. The general summary comes out easier than he expects. “I got…a bottle of whiskey and I think I…drank from it.”

“How much did you have?” He can’t help but frown. There’s a hint of disappointment in her voice and he imagines her frowning. A smile suits her better. He lets out a breath of air, turning his head in the general direction of the bottle. “I can’t remember. I just wanted-”He tenses, his surroundings suddenly sharpening, his mind springing to life.

No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

“Oh god.” He utters, horrified, his breath hitching. His heart races as his knuckles turn white from clenching the sheets beneath him. “You shouldn’t be here, Éponine. The others can’t know about this. I’m their guide- what would they think if they saw me like this? I-“ He breaks eye contact and gulps, tears suddenly pricking the corners of his eyes. “I just wanted to get away from them; they wouldn’t stop. I know they’re telling the truth, but I just, I couldn’t-“ He breaks off, convulsing, his heart beat stuttering. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can hear them again, and they’re saying all the things he knows and getting to be all too much to handle-

“’Ferre!” Éponine has grasped him by both shoulders. Her grip and her raspy voice are firm, but when he looks at her through a sheen of tears, her eyes are gentle, lacking the judgment he imagined to see. “Calm down. I’m not mad.” She takes a pregnant pause. He dreads her next words and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Who are you talking about?”

It’s an open dam from there. She draws the truth out of him and little by little he pieces together for her the fragments of the man he sees in the mirror and of the shadowy beings that lurk in the recesses of his mind. He reveals to her his darkest thoughts, the monster he’s come to see himself as, and the thought that he’s not good enough, that he’s not worth anything, that he’ll never measure up to the person he wants to be. By the end of the ordeal, he’s trembling with heavy wracking sobs. He’s curled in on himself because he’s got nothing left now. He’s shown her everything, his shell cracked open, the walls broken down, the layers peeled away until all that is left is him, in its ugly raw form, laid bare for judgment. She’s going to leave, he thinks. She’s seen everything now, she knows him at his worst. She seen the monster he is and is repulsed. She’ll leave and tell their friends about him and he’ll be alone like he fears he’d be-

But she doesn’t. Instead, Éponine pulls him out of his ball. She cups his face and leans in so close that their foreheads have collided against one another and their noses are barely touching. She’s crying too, silent tears running down both her cheeks.

“’Ferre,” She whispers almost reverently. “Listen to me for now, alright?”

He nods.

“I can’t say I know what you’re going through right now.” She murmurs first, closing her eyes in acquiescence. “But what you’re telling yourself- that’s not true. I know you think I’m lying, but I’m not. You say that compared to our friends, you’re nothing. I say that you have one of the biggest hearts of all the people I know. I mean, c’mon, you put up with all of our shit-“

“Because that’s what I do-“

She fixes a stern look, pulling back for a moment. “Let me finish. You put up with all of our shit on daily basis and you never complain about it and you deal with all of our problems with the patience of a Buddha. You never ask for anything in return and you never try to help half-heartedly. You give us everything and you never expect anything in return. I don’t know about you, but that’s makes a good man. You’re good, ‘Ferre.”

He sighs, leaning against her. As much as he’d like to believe that statement, he can’t accept it. “It’s not like that, Éponine. I don’t do that because I want to. I only help because that’s the only thing I can do.”

She snorted, opening her eyes. “I figured you’d say something like that. Sometimes, I think we get so caught up in our own problems we don’t take time to appreciate the things you do for us.” She rubs a thumb against the coarse skin of his chin, gaze averted. “Or that our guide might need our help too. I don’t…” She removes her hands from his face to take ahold his own. “Know what your voices tell you, but the next time they’re there, tell me.

“Actually,” Éponine corrects herself. “Tell any of us, if you’re comfortable enough. We’ll be there. We might not know how to beat them off, but we’ll do what we can. Until you can do it yourself. You don’t have to do this on your own, ‘Ferre.”

There’s strange mixture of emotions in his gut. His gaze, once adamantly fixed on his lap, turns to her eyes. They bear no hate, no anger, no judgment. There’s nothing but sympathy and a sincere promise in her eyes.

“Just promise me you won’t pull a stunt like this again, alright? For me?”

And he finds himself nodding, still staring. She smiles and leans in.

She kisses him chastely and his breath hitches, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. When she pulls back, Combeferre blinks, suddenly in a daze.

And it’s not because of the whiskey.

She snickers, laughing lightly. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed. You look like you need some sleep.” After getting him to lie down, she pulls the covers over him, turning to leave. “Sleep tight, ‘Ferre.”

“Wait.” He speaks up, catching her free hand. She turns back to him in question and he flushes. “Stay?” His cheeks are burning now. “Until I fall asleep?”

A smile breaks out on her lips, which are bright red, he just realizes. “Of course. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” She pulls up his desk chair and doesn’t let go of his hand.

His eyes flutter shut as the last thing he sees is the sunlight trapped in her cascade of brown locks and a pair of warm dark eyes watching over him. All is quiet. He is at peace.

_._

_._

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
